


in the beauty of the ending day

by WhiteLadyoftheRing



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:34:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteLadyoftheRing/pseuds/WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Charming Family] When Emma thinks of autumn, she thinks of crisp leaves and wind-whipped cheeks.  For Mary Margaret, autumn is the time of new beginnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the beauty of the ending day

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken some liberties with the canon timeline to make this work. The title is taken from the lyrics of 'Something More Than This' by October Project.
> 
> ***Thank you, Angie, for betaing!!!

_Autumn_

 

.

 

When Emma thinks of autumn, she thinks of crisp leaves and wind-whipped cheeks.

 

She was born in autumn; someplace nearby they say. It isn’t much, but it’s a start. She uses it as a launching point - somewhere to start as she pores over public records, over newspaper clippings and false leads. But some days? Some days she uses it to count back the months and she wonders what her parents had; if she’d been the product of a night of alcohol and bad decisions. It’s the best explanation she can conjure, but secretly she hopes it had been something more than that, that _she’d_ been more than a mistake.

 

She wonders.

 

And she wonders if Henry’s wondered the same.

 

.

 

For Mary Margaret, autumn is the time of new beginnings.

 

Perhaps it’s her job; she imagines it’s just as easy to run away from life as a teacher as it is to run away from life as anything else. With autumn comes a fresh batch of students, bright-eyed and eager to learn. They come to school in brand new shoes with flashy new lunchboxes; some pull apples from their bags for their teachers, while hers bring pears.

 

New beginnings.

 

Emma moves in. She’s never had a roommate before, not that she can remember, but she thinks it will be an adventure.

 

A new beginning.

 

.

 

Emma has never really had a home for Thanksgiving, let alone a family. Sure, when she was in the foster system, there would be turkey dinners and eating (for once) until she was so full she felt she would burst, but there had also been gum-in-hair incidents and bigger kids scuffling with the smaller ones for their slice of pie. Despite the feeling of a full belly, it was never exactly a happy day.

 

The day before the holiday itself, Mary Margaret comes home with enough groceries to feed a small army. “Normally, I go to Granny’s,” she explains. “She makes dinner for everyone without a place to go -- quite a lot of people, come to think of it -- but this year I thought--”

 

“You thought--” Emma stammers, poking at the bags to find no less than three cans of canned yams and an enormous bag of marshmallows. “You’re -- you’re cooking me Thanksgiving dinner?”

 

The blood rushes to Mary Margaret’s cheeks - a bright pink against her pale complexion - and tugs on the edge of her sleeve. “Well, I thought you’d help me, but -- yeah.” She bites her lower lip, eyes brimming with hope. “It’s what -- families do, but since neither of us -- I thought --”

 

Emma isn’t sure what that means - ‘what families do’ - but she smiles in spite of herself, and helps Mary Margaret stock the pantry.

 

.

 

The kitchen is an absolute mess, having suffered no less than two food fights during preparation and the beginning of a third during the meal itself. They only eat about a third of the food, and it’s only when Mary Margaret is stuffing the leftovers into the fridge that she realizes she _might_ have gone a _little_ overboard.

 

She can’t remember having ever prepared Thanksgiving dinner before though, so she deems Emma’s response of “I’m so stuffed I feel like I’m going to explode” a sign of success. She remembers other Thanksgivings but only vaguely, the memories shrouded in mist. She remembers how every year Leroy grumbles from his usual spot at the bar, how Whale eyes Ruby’s behind in a way that makes her actually want to rap his knuckles with a ruler. It’s the same, year after year.

 

She has new memories now; memories of Emma splattering half the kitchen with mashed potatoes, of smearing flour across Emma’s cheeks; of eating raw pie crust and tugging on one side of the wishbone as Emma pulled on the other.

 

“What did you wish for?” she’d asked when Emma’s piece had been determined to be bigger.

 

Emma had shrugged, the joy that had been in her eyes just moments before suddenly absent. “Nothing that can actually come true.”

 

The change in mood hadn’t lasted long though, and now Mary Margaret is left with clean-up duty while Emma lounges on the couch, complaining of ‘turkey coma’ and watching National Lampoon’s _Christmas Vacation_ on her laptop.

 

Mary Margaret stashes away the last of the mashed potatoes (well, aside from the clumps crusting over on the ceiling). “I thought you didn’t like the holidays.” She considers cleaning the rest of the kitchen now, but in its current disastrous state it may take hours. With a sigh, she abandons the idea altogether.

 

“I don’t. But I do like slapstick humor.”

 

“Fair enough,” she replies, making her way over to the couch. “Mind some company?”

 

Emma shifts, letting Mary Margaret slide onto the end of the couch before replacing her feet on the brunette’s lap. The movie drones on quietly, and soon Mary Margaret finds herself succumbing to the lure of ‘turkey coma’ as well.

 

“Mary Margaret?” Emma murmurs, drawing her back from sleep.

 

She licks her lips, fighting back exhaustion. “Mm?”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Mary Margaret frowns, more awake now and blinking blearily at the credits rolling on the computer screen. “For what?”

 

“For Thanksgiving,” Emma replies simply. “It -- today was good.”

 

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret smiles. “It was.”

 

.

.

.

 

_Winter_

 

.

 

Winter reminds Emma of sleeping in her car.

 

It was commonplace for so long it’s strange to think that winter in particular brings to mind the memory of nights curled up in the backseat of her bug. But then again, it wasn’t the summer nights that chilled her to the bone, not the spring or autumn when she’d cry icy tears and wonder when she’d finally catch a break.

 

Winter is when she’d look up at the clear night sky, find a star and _wish_.

 

.

 

Mary Margaret thinks of winter, and she thinks of glass coffins and true love’s kiss.

 

It’s silly, she knows. Childish at best, but winter has always felt magical to her, full of potential just waiting to be realized. She sees it all around her - in the way her students mold the snow into snowmen and snow forts, as shy lovers kiss beneath the mistletoe and write one another valentines. The world is beautiful and frozen. Peaceful.

  
Winter is magic.

 

.

 

Mary Margaret loves Christmas; that much is certain.

 

Emma watches her roommate pull box after box of decorations from the storage room, each overflowing with more tinsel and festive cheer than the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. “Is all of this really necessary?” she comments, taking a long draw of hot chocolate as Mary Margaret drags the last of the boxes to the middle of the living room floor.

 

Mary Margaret considers the stack of boxes for a long moment. “It isn’t _that_ much.”

 

“Right,” Emma drones, though she can’t help but smile at the sight of Mary Margaret setting to work untangling the lights. “Is that what you’re going to tell Santa when he comes looking for his emergency stash?”

 

Mary Margaret scowls, chucking a plush snowman at Emma’s head. “Really funny.”

 

“But really, what’s with all the decorations? I thought you normally went to Granny’s for the holidays.”

 

“I do,” Mary Margaret muses. “But -- it’s silly -- but I guess I’d always hoped I’d have someone to share them with. Someday.”

 

Emma has never really had anyone to spend Christmas with. Most years, it hasn’t bothered her. But sometimes …

 

But sometimes, she presses her hand to her stomach and imagines the fluttering of tiny feet against her palm.

 

Her fingers move to stroke the leather bootlace on her wrist. “Well,” she says, fighting back the memories, “I guess we have each other now.”

 

.

 

Emma isn’t a morning person.

 

Mary Margaret had figured this out early on, of course, but somehow she’d expected at least _some_ enthusiasm on Christmas morning. Instead, Emma had trudged down the stairs, groaning about it being eight in the morning and needing at least three cups of coffee before she’ll feel anywhere near human. Mary Margaret had prepared though, waiting at the counter with an extra-large mug of extra-hot coffee (and just a splash of eggnog).

 

“I can’t believe you woke me up at eight on my day off,” Emma grouses, “for a stocking full of candy.”

 

“And presents,” Mary Margaret offers hopefully, presenting Emma with a neatly wrapped package, complete with bow.

 

Emma is only on coffee number two and eyes Mary Margaret skeptically. “This had better be worth the wakeup call,” she warns jokingly, and doesn’t give Mary Margaret a chance at rebuttal before she tears into the wrapping.

 

She isn’t neat about it, Mary Margaret notices. She herself had always been one to neatly unfold the wrapping paper, to untie the ribbon and set the whole lot aside in a tidy pile. Emma, on the other hand, rips into it with no intentions of anything being reused in the end. The floor is a mess of shredded paper by the time she’s done and lifting the lid off the box.

 

“Mary Margaret,” she breathes, pulling her gift from its package. “Did you--?”

 

“It was nothing,” Mary Margaret replies, feeling the blood rushing to her cheeks. ‘Nothing’ might be a bit of an understatement - the quilt had taken over a week to construct, and a full day after that to embroider. “Your bed was looking kind of bare,” she explains. “And winters here are -- well, it’s Maine -- and the insulation--”

 

“I got you oven mitts,” Emma admits, cutting her off and leaving her speechless for a moment.

 

“You -- okay?” Mary Margaret frowns.

 

“I got you oven mitts and you _made me a quilt_.”

 

“That’s fine,” says Mary Margaret, shifting from frown to confused smile. “I wanted to.”

 

Emma is quiet for a long moment, seemingly transfixed as her fingers trace the embroidery along the bottom of the quilt - her name in silky purple thread. “No-one’s ever done something like this for me before.”

 

“Well,” Mary Margaret smiles, reaching out to clasp Emma’s hand tightly in her own, “get used to it.”

 

.

.

.

 

_Spring_

 

.

 

Spring is a time of forgiveness.

 

Emma has always likened spring to second chances. She isn’t one to hand out ‘get out of jail free’ cards - or maybe she _is_ , as a bailbondswoman, though that’s beside the point - but everyone deserves a do-over at some point in their lives.

 

She remembers the day she breathed in freedom, taking deep gulps of the fresh spring air as she turned her face toward the sky.

 

She remembers turning the key and feeling the bug hum to life around her, remembers starting out to find her parents.

 

.

 

When spring comes, Mary Margaret watches the magic of winter melt away.

 

It’s silly, she thinks, to mourn the loss of winter - a season so commonly associated with death and sadness - and to dread the onset of spring - the time of birth and growth. It’s silly, but she can’t help how she feels.

 

She watches the bluebirds build their nests, readying the world for their young. She watches, and feels the broil of envy stirring in the pit of her stomach, deep within her empty womb.

 

She watches, and she wonders why she feels such acute loss at such a beautiful miracle.

 

.

 

“And this is why I don’t have so many things,” Emma smirks, watching as Mary Margaret unloads the knick knacks from her dresser, her shelves and … pretty much every available surface in the apartment. “Makes spring cleaning a whole lot easier.” Mary Margaret scowls, before bopping Emma on the nose with her duster. The feathers tickle, and she fights off a sneeze.

 

“Hey, you’ve accumulated quite a few things since you moved in.”

 

Emma snorts, lying back on Mary Margaret’s bed. The comment is true enough; all of her possessions are unpacked and tucked tidily into their proper places - though Mary Margaret is responsible for nearly half of that - and her closet is so full it’s started spilling out onto her bedroom floor. “Maybe,” she concedes. “But I don’t have nearly as much crap as you do.”

 

“I’ve lived here longer,” Mary Margaret replies huffily.

 

“You can’t have lived here _that_ long. You’re what? About my age? And I _know_ you had to go to college. You’ve been here five, six years max.” Mary Margaret stills, and for a moment, Emma thinks she’s said something wrong. “What did I say?”

 

“Nothing,” says Mary Margaret, sounding distant. She perches on the edge of the bed, feather duster in her lap. “Nothing, just -- I can’t remember even moving in here. Isn’t that strange?”

 

Something about that tugs at Emma’s mind, pulls at her heart in a way that makes her uncomfortable enough that she pushes back against it. Instead, she jokes, “Must be the curse.”

 

Mary Margaret smiles, still far-off. “Must be.”

 

.

 

“Didn’t you just finish _cleaning_ the apartment?”

 

Mary Margaret looks over her shoulder, wiping at her forehead with the back of her hand (and probably leaving a smudge of dirt in the process). She’s elbow-deep in potting soil, sporting her rattiest UMaine sweats and completely surrounded by trays of flowers. “I put newspaper down,” she shoots back defensively.

 

Emma just laughs, coming to sit against the wall beside her. “Actually, I was wondering how long those windowboxes would stay empty.”

 

Mary Margaret huffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“I don’t know,” Emma shrugs. “That you’re you?”  
  


If that had been a response from one of her students, Mary Margaret would _definitely_ not have given full credit, but from Emma it seems a justifiable response. “Wanna help?”

 

Emma hesitates, eyeing the smudges on Mary Margaret’s jeans and the massive amount of flowers left to be planted. “I’ve -- never done it before.”

 

“What?” Mary Margaret frowns, incredulous. “Planted flowers?”

 

Emma shakes her head.

 

“Never?”

 

“Never,” Emma agrees quietly. “It always seemed like something -- something that mothers and daughters did together.”

 

Mary Margaret is quiet at that, thinking of the worn baby blanket and slim folder sitting on Emma’s dresser. “I know it’s not the same,” she offers softly. “But I don’t remember much of my own mother.” She holds out the trowel. “I can teach you,” she offers, smiling brightly. “If you want.”

 

Emma hesitates, then rolls up her sleeves and accepts the small shovel. “If you think you can handle me. I’m not a very good student.”

 

Mary Margaret laughs at that. “I work with fourth graders all day,” she says. “Pretty sure I can manage you.”

 

Emma turns out to be a fast learner, and soon they’re both covered head to toe in potting soil, the flowers settling into their new home outside the window. “I have to admit,” Mary Margaret comments slyly as she folds up the newspaper, “I was a little worried.”  
  
“Worried about what?”

 

“Well, the last time I had flowers,” she grins, stopping beside Emma to wipe a smudge of dirt from the blonde’s cheek, “you threw them in the garbage.”

 

.

.

.

 

_Summer_

 

.

 

Summer is a time of freedom.

 

Emma remembers the last day of school, racing out the classroom doors and hopping onto her twice-handed-down bike, soaring down the sidewalk into freedom. No teachers to appease, no foster parents to care about where she was or whom she was with until dinner. Freedom.

 

She’d gotten her tattoo the summer after she turned fourteen. A forged permission slip and her first paycheck were all it took to mark this turning point in her life. It didn’t matter what the tattoo was of, and she pointed to the second flower on page three of the artist’s portfolio. The first in a line of very stupid, very permanent mistakes.

 

At the time though, it hadn’t mattered. All that had mattered was that she was _free_.

 

.

 

Snow likens summer to the sun - beautiful from afar, but painful to touch.

 

It’s the harsh light of day that shows things as they truly are, and here she stands, the curse broken but nothing all right at all.

 

Her little girl is grown up.

 

Her little girl doesn’t need her anymore.

 

She’s missed it all.

 

.

 

Summer comes, and everything is different.

 

Emma had never had a best friend before. She’d never had a mother before either. It’s safe to say she’d never expected to find both in the same woman.

 

It’s different, and as hard as Emma tries, she can’t bring herself to like the change. She feels like a petulant child for her unhappiness, feels like she shouldn’t be moping over finding _the one thing_ she’s been searching for her whole life.

 

But in the process, she’s lost her best friend and it isn’t worth it.

 

“I wish you were still Mary Margaret,” she admits one night when Aurora and Mulan are sleeping. Aurora’s head is settled against Mary Margaret’s knee, fingers working through her hair.

 

“I’m right here,” she says softly.

 

“It isn’t the same,” Emma replies as she pokes at the fire with a stick. “Nothing’s the same.”

 

“No,” Mary Margaret replies sadly. “No, it isn’t.”

 

.

 

Snow holds her baby girl, and it doesn’t feel quite right.

 

She’s too big - twenty-eight years too big to be exact - and she’s broken. They both are.

 

This isn’t what was supposed to happen.

 

She doesn’t know how to be a mother to an infant, let alone to a grown woman; she doesn’t even remember how to be her best friend and it takes all she has not to confess that she’s just as lost, just as broken, just as helpless as Emma is.

 

“We’re gonna make it home,” she promises instead, because hope is all she has left to give her daughter. “We will.”

 

For a moment, she thinks Emma believes her.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

_Autumn Redux_

 

_._

 

Autumn is a time of new beginnings.

 

For all of them.

 

They welcome a new life into the world - a healthy baby boy, six pounds four ounces, nineteen inches long. Snow and Charming are delighted, instantly in love with their son, this little creature that looks up at them with all the wonder in the world, and they gaze back at him, equally marveled by his very existence.

 

There’s a new house too, of course. One with a garage and a yard, and rooms for all of them. It isn’t a castle, but it’s perfect for their little family.

 

Family, Emma thinks as she tugs the sleeves of her sweater over her fingertips. She has a family.

 

Her father carefully arranges her little brother in her arms. It’s the first time she’s held a newborn, and yet she imagines he looks just like Henry had - wrinkled and screaming to the high heavens and _perfect_.

 

It takes less than a moment for her to fall in love with him.

 

.

 

Thanksgiving dinner is a mess.

 

Emma remembers her first Thanksgiving here, remembers the food fights in the kitchen with Mary Margaret, remembers the look of exasperation on her roommate’s face when the first batch of mashed potatoes went flying out of the mixer and onto any and every surface. That had been a mess too, but not quite like this.

 

Henry’s extended family is, well, _extensive_ , to the point they’ve had to borrow tables and chairs from Granny’s to accommodate all the guests. There are far fewer flour battles and hardly any eating of raw dough between keeping opposing family members from killing one another (and oh how she wishes that statement weren’t literal) and making sure Henry doesn’t run off with the pie.

 

It’s strange to think this house is barely big enough to hold her entire family, when just a few years ago she’d thought she had no family at all.

 

Her baby brother is passed around endlessly - cooed and sighed over by everyone he meets. She likes to think that would have been her, perhaps in another life where her parents were just that; where she’d grown up happy and loved. She envies him more than a little, watching a whole kingdom crowd around him with love and adoration.

 

But when she looks over to find David teaching Henry to carve the turkey - an endeavor she doesn’t _exactly_ approve of, but it’s an improvement on the sword fighting - she realizes she wouldn’t trade her life for anything.

 

_._

 

It’s quiet now. The guests have left, deeming the newly grown family in need of rest, and even Charming and Henry have headed outside, wooden swords in hand to continue training. The baby is finally asleep, and Snow takes a deep breath, wondering when the silence is going to end.

 

It doesn’t, and after several more moments pass and the silence still reigns, she creeps downstairs, careful not to wake either of her children.

 

‘Either’ because Emma is asleep too, of course, sprawled out on the couch with National Lampoon’s _Christmas Vacation_ playing on the television. She’s more than a little envious of her daughter’s ability to pass out anytime and anywhere, especially with the recent addition of nighttime feedings to their already hectic schedule.

 

She slips her fingers through Emma’s hair. “Emma honey? You got some room for me?”

 

.

 

Emma stirs, blinking awake. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep - not entirely at least - but she’d waited - waited and waited and waited - with no sign of her mother. It had been silly to assume that a one-time thing would become a tradition, but here she is - smiling down at her as her fingers comb through her hair.

 

“Sorry,” she murmurs, and shifts, making room for her mother before using her lap for a pillow. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

 

“I know,” Snow replies teasingly. “It’s that ‘turkey coma’ getting you down.”

 

“Mm,” Emma agrees. “How’s the baby?”

 

“Just like his sister. Worn out.”

 

Emma laughs softly at that, curling more tightly into herself as she turns her attention to the catastrophe that is the Griswold Family Christmas. The movie is a comfort almost, knowing that some families - albeit fictional - are nearly as dysfunctional as her own.

 

“Mary Margaret?” she asks softly when she’s fighting sleep again.

 

Snow doesn’t respond at first, seeming taken aback by the name. “Hmm?”

 

“Do you remember our first Thanksgiving together?”

 

She can hear the smile in Snow’s voice. “Of course I do.”

 

“Do you remember the wishbone? And how I won?”

 

Snow’s fingers work their way through her hair again, tugging gently at the snarls. “Mhm?”

 

“I wanted--” Emma’s voice catches, and she clears her throat. “My wish -- it was to find my parents. To find my mother.” Snow stills at that. “And now -- isn’t it funny that you were right here the whole time?”

 

“Yeah,” Snow chokes. “Yeah it kinda is.”

 

Emma isn’t sure what comes over her, maybe it’s the holiday spirit, or maybe it’s the wine. Hell, it could be the ‘turkey coma’ taking its toll on her. But for whatever reason, when she opens her mouth again, she can’t help but whisper, “Love you ... _Mom_.”

 

Snow sobs softly, and for a brief moment Emma regrets having said anything at all, until--

 

“Love you too, Emma.”

 

Everything changes, Emma thinks, nestling into her mother’s embrace as she settles down for her post-Thanksgiving nap. Nothing stays the same, not entirely at least. But some things change for the better.

 

“And Emma?” Snow adds softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving. :)


End file.
